Strangers on a Train
by Louise24601
Summary: Michael really wasn't looking forward to such a long train ride to Chicago. But then, he wasn't expecting he'd meet someone like Sara. Alternate universe. Some other members of the Prison Break cast might end up on that train in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

It'd been a cloudless-blue day of sunshine in South Carolina when Michael took a cab to the Amtrak train station. No doubt, what was ordinary autumn weather in Greenville was dull rain in Chicago, and Michael hadn't been very excited to go in the first place. It wasn't that he didn't care his brother was getting married. Veronica had been Lincoln's blessing from the first and it was lucky, probably luckier than Michael knew, that she'd given his brother a chance to settle down.

But making a two-day trip on a train had been Lincoln's idea, because he was supposed to spend the week at Michael's first and he hated flying – _flying is for boring working people_ , he'd said. But boring and working enough to take the plane was just what Michael happened to be.

"Sorry, Mike," Lincoln had said on the phone a couple of weeks ago, after cancelling his trip. "V wants me to spend some time with her parents before the wedding – you know they never really had a chance to warm up to me. Who could blame them, teenage prick that I was. Anyway. You don't mind, do you?"

Michael hated to sound like the whiny little brother who's being stood up. Any argument or protest he could think of started with _But you said_ _that_ or _You promised_ , both of which were ridiculous in the mouth of a grown man.

"Of course I don't." He answered. "I just wish you'd told me soon enough for me to change my reservations."

"Nah, a long trip will do you good. I want you looking all ruffled and rugged at my wedding, less handsome than me if possible."

"I'll try my best," Michael tried to sound genuinely cheerful.

"You do that, Mike. And try not to be too gloomy about the trip, all right? Who knows, you might even meet someone."

However unhappy he was about the change of plans, Michael couldn't repress a burst of laughter. "Come on, Linc. Who ever meets anyone interesting on a train?"

…

He was actually pleased to note the seat next to his was empty. Awfully rude to think that, probably, but Michael couldn't help but relax as he settled by the window, on seat B13, putting down the black case in which he stored his computer and some business-related files. Though this was hardly the ideal environment to get some work done, maybe he'd manage to go over some of the latest blueprints his boss wanted him to check out. Besides, the view was decent, though it didn't beat the one you got from an airplane.

Just a few minutes before the train was due to leave, Michael removed his coat, reached for his case and started unlatching it around the same time that a tall, breathless woman dropped her purse on the seat next to his.

His disappointment at being flanked with another passenger after all caught Michael by surprise – he wasn't usually so keen on solitude, but he'd really been looking to go through those blueprints. Then he took a better look at the woman, slightly tousled hair and cheeks warm-pink from catching the train at the last minute no doubt, and his disappointment dropped like a cold useless rock in his throat.

"Right on time, aren't I?" She said, though only casting a brief look at him. She'd taken a seat, but she was still busy sliding off her coat. "I never used to be late for anything. It's the job that does it, of course. Sorry. We've not even started rolling yet and I'm already rambling."

"Not at all."

She met his eyes and this time Michael could make a true assessment of her. He never managed not to look at someone without paying attention to each detail, as if it said something about them, as if he was working out the emerging image of an unfinished puzzle. The hair was what had first caught his eye, fortunate shades of red are hard to come by, and hers had been a stunning strawberry flash, curtaining most of her face. And it was a nice face. Incredibly well-carved cheekbones. Her eyes – the shade was light brown, not hazel but cinnamon – were nearly too big, taking you off guard, giving her a somewhat childish air. But the smile… Oh, the smile was a winner, Michael determined, during the few seconds that they sat looking at each other. That smile would melt through ice and steel.

"I'm Michael," he said. Force of habit almost had him extend his hand, but it would have looked awkward, their seats were too close to one another.

"Sara," she replied.

"Sara," he caught himself repeating. "Where are you headed, if you don't mind me asking."

"Washington." She sighed. "You?"

"Chicago."

"My, and I thought I was in for a long ride."

There came that smile again. Michael answered with an embarrassed chuckle. "Well, my brother's getting married next Saturday. I would have usually taken the plane, but he thought it was for boring working people."

"So where's your brother now?"

This time Michael managed a decent smile in response. "In Chicago, with his fiancée."

"Oh, I see. You've been ditched."

Michael felt quite blind to the train which had started quietly rolling and to the announcement which informed them of the location of the dining car, where lunch would be served from 11.30 to 3 o'clock.

"Yes," he says. "That's actually it. And you," he didn't think of whether it was too early to ask, whether she'd not really meant to start a conversation and some pulp fiction novel was patiently waiting in her purse. "Why the train?"

"Who knows, maybe precisely because it's longer than the plane. I'm meeting my father in Washington – I suppose I wasn't in such a rush to see him." No irony in her tone, he marveled. It actually sounded as though irony had been incorporated so long ago it no longer bothered to make itself heard. "In any case," she concluded. "It looks like we're both headed to a family reunion."

The silence that fell between them had something ambiguous. Chance encounters such as this one could turn on a dime. Absolutely anything might happen. She could go for her bag and take something out of it – a book, her cellphone, something to pass the time, while he would study the blueprints as he'd meant to, and they'd give each other polite smiles once in a while when their eyes would inadvertently meet.

For whatever reason, Michael felt in his bones that this wasn't what he wanted.

"Family reunions," he repeated. "Aren't they meant to be some kind of hell?"

"Maybe the worse kind." Still smiling with that heart-stopping smile. "But Michael, we might be a while if you get me on about that."

He shrugged his shoulders. The blueprints could wait. "Well, we have something like ten hours ahead of us, don't we?"

Of course, he didn't usually talk to strangers in public transportation – did anyone? – and he couldn't have been more reluctant if he'd been told it's what he'd be doing during that train ride.

But there was that cunning look in her eyes, as if she'd seen something of the world she didn't expect anyone ever had. Something eager about the air between them, silence waiting to be devoured. And that attractive, haunting smile.

Then, all of a sudden, making him feel quite ridiculous, a quote from a 1940-something movie he'd never watched flashed through his mind.

 _'_ _Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.'_

 _..._

AN: I don't have the slightest idea why this story came to me, I only know I thought it'd be fun to write. Don't ask me why Michael and Sara live in South Carolina, if I can think of a back story maybe I'll add one ; ). The quote at the end is (of course) from the movie _Casablanca_.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN** : Thanks for the awesome reviews I've been getting! I always welcome comments so be sure to let me know what you think, and if there are things you want to see happening in the following chapters I'd love to hear about them. Enjoy!

What was most surprising about the whole affair, probably, was how little he was Sara's type. Scratch that. Actually, it was more accurate to say how little he _resembled_ the men she had dated in the past. For starters, Sara had never been one to swoon at overly handsome men, which was just what Michael Scofield was, beyond doubt, unmistakably. _Ridiculously_ handsome. Maybe it had only been arrogance that'd made her prefer more down-to-earth looks in men. She never minded the missing six-packs or Hollywoodian ruggedness, and least of all the secret satisfaction in her girlfriends' eyes when she went with them on double dates and they introduced their admittedly more attractive companions.

It had always struck Sara as a funny fact of life, that so many women seemed to value themselves according to the man they were seeing. _If he's more handsome than hers, it must mean I'm prettier_. Or was it smarter, or sexier, or whatever was fashionable for a man to look for in a woman? How gratifying, to be please, to be desired. Yes, perhaps Sara did feel slightly condescending to those who adopted such behavior. Her own esteem would not be built on what men thought of her, or other women for that matter. Maybe she'd been set free of this desperate search for approval when she'd realize she'd never get her father's.

But though exceptionally charming, Michael Scofield looked nothing like the prototype of the Ideal Man she'd pictured and had done her best to elude.

There was remarkable kindness in his eyes and voice when he addressed her, and some sort of caution. _He's had to work at it_ , she realized, _to earn it_ , _the way only an unlucky few have to_.

Yes, in truth, nearly from the beginning, Sara felt there was something in that stranger, on a blood-and-bone deep level, that was exactly like her. She could sense it, in the way his polite smile didn't quite reach his eyes, brimming with hidden depths. _Behind us both_ , she reflected, _there're waters that run deep as abysses. But the question is, are they the same waters? Have we seen the same things?_

They hadn't yet gone past introductory topics. The train had been rolling for nearly an hour, long enough for them to cover what jobs they did and a shallow glimpse at their family backgrounds. It wasn't Sara's habit to share personal things with strangers and a stubborn part of her refused to, as if it were a matter of principle. What was more, she could tell he was avoiding it, too.

"Are you and your brother close?" She asked at some point, in one of those fifteen-second pauses that came in every ten minutes or so. She deemed it a safe subject, Michael didn't seem to mind talking about his brother.

"We are actually," his eyes lowered for a split second. She'd noticed they did when he became earnest. "Linc and I were inseparable as children. We always took care of each other, as far as I can remember."

"He's a lot like you, then?"

The chuckle on his lips was moving, honest. Sara had seen girls swooning for less. "He's really not. I guess that's what is most amazing about it. You couldn't find two least similar boys in a class room. He'd have been messing around and playing tricks on teachers while I sat and read my books."

"I'd have liked to see that." Had she said this out loud?

"Linc's always been very keen on…" Michael was silent for two, maybe three seconds, debating on how to put this. "Defying authority."

"He was?" She said on a casual tone, and thought: _You weren't?_ Maybe only because she wanted to believe that stranger was much like her, Sara was tempted not to believe that. Yet again, there was that nearly imperceptible degree of shame in his voice – _there's something he admires in his brother's rebelliousness. Something he envies_. So maybe he was telling the truth.

"Oh," Michael resumed, taking advantage of the fact that the train was presently going over a bridge to direct his gaze at the window and avoid hers. "Lincoln could never bear people telling him what to do."

"Yes. I can't say I blame him."

The young man's lips broke into a slight grin. It very much became him. "What, are there forms of authority you've had issues with in the past?" He made it sound like a joke, but she'd wager he genuinely cared about the answer.

Sara didn't usually talk about these things, even with people she'd known for years. For some reason, right now, it felt easy. Maybe precisely because she hadn't known Michael longer than an hour, because she would not know him longer than ten.

"Me?" She said, without sarcasm. Beyond sarcasm. Michael had stopped pretending to be interested in the view by then and was looking at her, rather intent. "I have issues, I'd say, with all of them."

"All of them?"

"Of all the things America promises its citizens, I've always valued liberty above all. The pursuit of happiness is all very well, but one's got to be free to pursue anything. Equality, I've given up on a long time ago. But freedom, being the master of one's own decisions, owning up to everything you've done, the good and the bad – that's what does it, isn't it? There's no point to me, without that."

 _What cold intensity in his blue eyes_ , she thought, silence hanging taut and bristle between them, like frost. _You'd think he was gazing at me from another world, from another universe_. Why did she have this strange feeling that something of _cosmic_ proportions was taking place, just then? She'd never felt before so aware of being such an infinitely small being in an infinitely wide place, so aware of chance, her path in a billion others somehow intersecting with somebody else's.

"What is it?" She asked, at how serious he looked. But maybe she was also asking to know the reasons of these private thoughts. _I could have taken any train, any day_. _Dad wanted me in Washington weeks ago, I could have gone yesterday, have had anyone else on the seat next to mine_.

She remembered reading somewhere – was it in one of those silly magazines she sometimes picked up in a waiting room? – that life turned on a dime. She could picture it so well, spinning fast like a carousel, round and round.

"I don't know." Michael answered, a puzzled, slightly upset line barring his brows. "It's just a feeling I got, looking at you just then – I don't know." He repeated. "For some reason, I'm very inclined to invite you to my brother's wedding. I feel like he'd really like you."

The stark honesty of his reply got Sara laughing. She marveled at how simply it came to her. "Well, I've got a week cleared from work and I don't know what my father's got planned for me, on Saturday. If I happen to be in Chicago, I'll give you a call."

She'd meant this to sound playful, teasing at best. It'd be absolutely ridiculous to give serious thought to crossing seven hundred miles to make it to the wedding of a man she had never met, who happened to be the brother of a man she barely knew.

"I'm sure I'd like your brother," Sara went on.

"Yes," Michael's reply was numb.

"We could talk about the authority figures we stood up to – teachers, I take it." Maybe parents.

"Yes," he only said.

Sara started laughing again. "You know, this is very strange. You tell me you aren't alike your brother at all, and it certainly sounds like he and I have much in common. And yet, I feel like –" Interrupting herself, for a moment. What had got into her, saying such things, talking so freely? Doubt came over her like a gossamer cloud, she could still see through it, see how easy it would feel to continue. She decided to cross over before giving it a chance to thicken. "I feel like you and I are the same, on some invisible level. Like we're cut out of the same material." She shook her head, broke from the intensity of his blue eyes. _If he's not laughing in ten seconds, I'll apologize_. "Does that make sense?"

"More than you know."

Time was suspended, heavy and dense, you could sense it, taste it, and yet the landscape was still flashing them by past the window.

Michael cleared his throat, she could see he aimed to start on a lighter tone. "Well." He said. "It's funny how things happen. I mean, chance encounters."

"Right. We've both been living in the same city for years, too," she shrugged. "We might have met anywhere. Drunk, out of a bar." If it had been a few years ago, she would have been beyond drunk and wouldn't have looked at him even if he were sitting right beside her.

"Or," he continued, amused, "I could have broken my leg or my arm and wound up at your hospital."

"Then, we probably wouldn't have been talking like we are now." She added, teasing but honest, "I'm a professional."

"Of course."

Michael quickly ran a hand over his scalp, she wondered if it was something he did when he was nervous. The watch on his wrist read a quarter to one. "So," he chuckled, charmingly embarrassed, "would you find it awfully inappropriate if I offered to buy you lunch?"

Sara felt ridiculously taken off guard for a few seconds. "No."

"Oh, good."

"I think I'd love to."

They both got up in an awkward, somewhat giddying state of disbelief.

 _If I woke up right now and found out I'd dreamed the whole encounter_ , Sara thought, _I wouldn't be surprised at all_.

Meanwhile, Michael muttered, as if to himself, "Of all the gin joints in all the world –"

"Did you say something?"

"Not at all."

And side by side, they made their way to the dining car.


	3. Chapter 3

The dining car was already well-crowded by the time they went to have lunch. The tables were filled with pairs, families; Michael caught a maybe ten-year-old stashing a plastic-wrapped chocolate muffin in his pocket. For a long time, it had been difficult for Michael to focus in such saturated environments, accounting for his at first recurrent failures at school. His parents hadn't known what to make of it – _You only have to study harder, Michael_ – they'd used threat and reprimand, but Lincoln alone had asked the right question.

"What's the real problem, Mike? 'Cause we both know it isn't how much you study. You knew the answers to that test, right? Heck, you usually help me out with my homework and I'm a sixth-grader."

And, of course, it wasn't the test, like Lincoln said. It was sound of pens scraping paper, the girl three seats from him drumming her fingers on the table, the nervous _clicks_ that the boy in the back made with his tongue. It was absolutely everything in the room, the teacher flipping the pages of his magazine, the chairs raking against the floor when the young pupils slouched in their seats, the buzzing fly darting past his ear every so often, the two birds prancing about the edge of the window.

It'd taken Michael months, teaching himself to leave these things out of focus, remembering his brother's voice – _You have to build a wall, Mikey, between these things and you. You picture a wall and it's too thick to see through or hear, all right? When it feels like they're all swarming at you, you just think of your wall, you leave the rest be_.

It had been a while since Michael had given thought to all of this. Sometimes, they still came at him, attacks from the past, an overly-intense awareness of all the things going on in a room, sending a rush of giddiness to his brain. That's how the anger had started, too. A fog blurring all about him and a deep, ongoing scream in his head, until there came a searing red pain and he realized he'd half-consciously banged it against a wall.

Growing up hadn't been easy, but in those moments, Lincoln had been his anchor, his lighthouse. It looked funny to outsiders because of how different both brothers were, but Michael knew better, knew the unspoken truth in Lincoln's self-domesticated gaze. Lincoln _knew_ the colors of Michael's anger. He had taught himself to make it invisible, and then he'd taught his brother.

"Not much room left," Sara observed casually, drew the young man out of his musing. "You think maybe we should have made a reservation?"

It turned out there was just one table left, in the very corner of the car. They both ordered meals that desperately tried to look fancy on the menu, a roasted chicken breast and a butternut squash risotto. "That'll be the least satisfying meal you've ever had since your high school cafeteria," she joked, he liked how she always sounded serious when she joked. No awkward chuckles or smiles. Her smiles were the real deal, you had to work for it.

"That's probably true," he agreed. "I suppose it isn't the best place to take a woman out."

"Well, you aren't actually taking me _out_."

"No," he conceded, his smile slightly strained.

He was still trying to block out the countless distractions in the room. It required more effort than it had in years – he must be really nervous. _Just build a wall, Michael_ , he thought, but focused on Sara instead – collected, beautiful, inspecting an orangey piece of vegetable at the end of her fork and furrowing her brows at it.

"Really," he resumed, his confidence returning. "I feel I should apologize in advance. Maybe we'll run into each other again one day and I'll make it up to you with a real date."

She shrugged, without looking indifferent. "I guess we could have used something fancier. I'm craving for a filet mignon."

"It's a deal then. I owe you."

Sara chuckled, looked up at him, and something in the car caught her gaze and turned it to icy steel. "My God," she sighed, half to herself. "You have to be kidding."

"What is it?"

"Don't look up, all right? Just look at me."

It had never been harder not to pay attention to the myriads of noises and alluring glimpses beckoning him from all around the room. Michael was vaguely aware of a figure crossing the car, amidst all of the seated passengers having lunch. It was a man, Michael could tell, even without looking, tall and hefty and with a presence altogether too imposing not to be noticed.

"Senator Kellerman," Michael recognized him without trying, without being able to help it. He'd spoken in whispers yet Sara hushed him with a harsh glare. "What, you – you don't actually know him?"

"Don't." She repeated. "He might not see us."

But the footsteps stopped just as he walked past their table. "I'll be damned," came a voice Michael had only heard on television prior to today.

Sara muttered an inaudible reply that might have been, "No, really, I will."

"Fancy meeting you here. Come, Sara," he said. "You won't even greet an old friend?"

Michael looked directly at him then, seeing no means to escape. He hadn't been wrong as to who the man was. The suit he wore was black, expensive. _Armani_. A few of the neighboring tables had already broken into avid whispers.

Sara kept her eyes fixed on her glass of water, with such coldness you could not have mistaken her reaction for awkwardness. Her composure was immaculate, the soft-cinnamon shade of her irises flaring with remarkable disdain.

Michael decided to help her out, asking an easy question, "You know each other?"

He'd expected an answer from the senator but Sara was quicker to reply, her eyes still fast and inscrutable on the transparent glass. "Paul worked with my father for years."

"Governor Tancredi's actually the man who got me started on politics," Kellerman added.

Suddenly the dots connected and Michael couldn't see how he had been this stupid. Tancredi. He thought the name sounded familiar. Looking back at Sara, he searched despite himself for a resemblance whatsoever with "Frontier Justice Frank" – no, not for the life of him. Michael promptly looked away when he realized how used she must be to such assessing stares.

"I knew Sara since she was a teenager." Kellerman resumed calmly. "I was myself barely out of college, if memory serves –"

"Not that this hasn't been swell, Paul," Sara's interruption was biting, ice-cold. "But we're both busy, I'm sure. You've got better things to do, haven't you?"

Michael felt he ought to be surprised at her reaction, yet it all fell perfectly into place, the cutting edge in her voice, the unforgiving fire in her inflexible gaze. He must have felt it made enough sense to reply, "Yes, if you don't mind, sir. We'd like to get back to our lunch. It's been nice meeting you." No trace of how surprised he was at himself transpired in Michael's tone which, though not overtly cold, left no doors open for a friendly conversation.

The man rose his eyebrows at them both and smiled. "Of course. I wouldn't want to intrude. First dates are important – and this is a first date, isn't it? Your father would have told me if you were seeing someone. You enjoy yourselves. You too, Sara. I hear you're such a hard worker now, you could use a little more leisure – couldn't we all?"

He was on his way before Michael could reply. Sara's jaws were screwed so tight he doubted she would have added anything.

Though they were both silent for several minutes, the little-appealing food between them getting cold and the conversations all around them teasing Michael's concentration, he didn't feel uncomfortable and he was certain she didn't either. "Your father's a politician." He said at some point. "Governor Tancredi –"

"Oh, you gathered that?" Her sarcasm was as usual unaggressive. She took a sip of water from the glass she had been staring at so hard, Michael found it miraculous it wasn't in pieces.

"Look, we don't have to talk about this. Really."

"No," she agreed.

She was so calm, he marveled. Actually, for the whole time that Senator Kellerman had been there, though she had exhibited coldness and an evident distaste for him, not the slightest hint of anger had been discernible on her face, in her eyes. No heated blush or telltale annoyance had betrayed her.

 _To be so good at not getting angry_ , he thought, _you must have known anger before, real anger, the sort that feels blinding and intimate_.

Looking at her, suddenly with caution, Michael wondered – _Are we more alike even than I thought before? Am I looking at someone from my own kind, hello, do you recognize me?_

Sara's eyes had not wavered from his all the while.

It became extraordinarily clear to them both that she did.

…

 **AN** : I don't know about you, but I'm enjoying writing this story even more. Please leave a comment to tell me what you thought. If there's someone else from the cast you'd like to see on that train and I can think of something to make it work out, I promise to try ).


	4. Chapter 4

It was utterly surprising that, after taking such a rickety start, their lunch happened to go so astonishingly well. After chancing upon Kellerman – Kellerman, of all people, what was a busy politician doing on a train? – Sara hadn't thought she'd be able to spend even a decent moment, however pleasant company that charming stranger should be.

But Michael Scofield was no longer really a stranger.

Sara could never suffer clichés. Not _just_ because they were clichés, too, done a thousand times over, but because of their persistence to pass as something plausible, for fostering expectations in little boys and girls who'd naively wait for them to happen even past a reasonable age. She hated most of all that cliché of love at first sight, and its numerous variations: love after just an intense few hours, having the girl tell the yet mysterious man she feels she's known him for years. _Where have you been all my life?_ The sort of phrase Sara was used to rolling her eyes at.

Evidently, neither she nor Michael thought of saying anything so trite. Instead, that odd feeling of such a sudden, deep connection hung between them unspoken, becoming part of their shared invisible ground.

That improvised lunch date was wonderful despite the imperfect setting, despite the crowded tables too close to theirs to enable intimacy and despite the disappointing food that was soon consumed and done with. It wasn't _only_ wonderful because of the things they said but also because of all the things they didn't. Things Sara could read into the curve of Michael's smile or the momentary cringes around his eyes, into that occasional look of disbelief that had him shake his head, because he too could only half-believe this.

But it wasn't only that Sara didn't believe in romantic clichés; she was ashamed of them. That was becoming quite clear, in how she caught herself wanting to resist when he prompted a smile from her, when looked altogether too charming to be true.

"Wait, so you also grew up in Chicago," Michael said as they were making their way back to their seats.

"I did. North Side."

While finding balance against the neighboring seats, she glanced at him long enough to chuckle at his boyish, wide-blue-eyed surprise. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"Irving Park?" He said, with such disbelief she thought it wouldn't be such an additional shock for him to learn they had spent their whole childhood in the same neighborhood."

"Close enough. North Center."

"That's incredible."

That stubborn resistance prevented her from joining in on his amazement. She smiled, both an apology to him and an inner chiding. "That we grew up in the same city and both lived in South Carolina for years and we somehow met by chance, on a train?"

She didn't want to sound sarcastic, didn't mean to – it _was_ incredible, and there was no reason to downplay it. The look on Michael's face only became a little more serious, more intrigued. They reached their seats and he sat by the window again, as he had when she first discovered him – ridiculous to think it had only been hours, yet ridiculous to think it had been more than that.

The question was burning in the back of her mind. _Where have you been all my life?_

"Where'd you go to college?" He asked.

"Northwest Chicago. Feinberg School of Medicine." She didn't say the name with particular fondness. The slogan was forever stuck in her head – inspired by possibility and undaunted by complexity. Med school hadn't been the best of years for Sara.

"So," Michael asked, "South Carolina was a job opportunity?"

"Something like that."

Sara didn't see the point in specifying she needed a new start after losing her job to morphine addiction and professional misconduct. _Theft_. Why not call it simply what it was? Besides, South Carolina had enabled her to put blessed distance between her father and her. The minute she was away, settling in a new apartment, away from the city she had grown up in, it had felt clear that she should have left years ago. If she had, there might not have been such a need for morphine in the first place.

Not that Sara was trying to elude the blame for her own addiction. She'd been the captain of her own shipwreck, sure enough.

"Whatever took you away from Chicago?" Sara asked. It was becoming a silly game, in her head, for him not to learn more about her than she knew about him.

"It was work as well. A promotion I almost didn't take," his chuckle sounded closer to an exhale. "My brother Linc was still in Illinois – it's difficult to explain. I didn't really like the thought of leaving him by himself. I don't think I would have, either, if he hadn't sworn to kick my ass if I didn't."

Laughter came before Sara could think of helping it. "Well, it's understandable. Family ties can be powerful, I imagine."

"It's especially that for a long time, Lincoln didn't do too well without me around. Jesus," he sighed, "I sound self-imbued now."

"Not really." Plus, it'd be hard to find a more attractive self to be imbued with.

"It goes both ways. I mean, Linc and I. We've always balanced each other perfectly. He helped with things no one else could understand, and I –" A rough, ragged pause. It wasn't quite hesitation. Michael wasn't used to putting this into words. "I kept him from going to extremes. He did the same for me, of course, but his extremes got him in more trouble than mine. I suppose I was afraid of finding out that, after all this time, Linc would still find his way back towards trouble if I went away. It's never been what he wanted, it just – it's in his nature."

Sara's lips were slightly parted in shock at his honesty. "And did he?" She asked without thinking. "When you left Chicago –"

Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "No, he was fine. He kept his job, stayed steady with the girl he was seeing. The one he's now marrying."

No awkwardness followed his statement yet Sara was uncertain what to say. She didn't know what it was about his story that touched her so deeply.

 _The control_ , she thought at last. It was about needing to keep everything under control, to be certain that something terrible would happen if you let go. Sara was all too familiar with this. When you keep such a tight grip on what you feel and do, everything that happens to you, even the bad, it can slide right off your armored skin and leave you unharmed. Or at least unscarred. So long as the cracks remain beneath the surface, you can hold all of the pieces together and the world around you will think you're whole. And if you can fool them, you can fool yourself. The things that are unsaid, invisible, can exist only in your mind and never impact much of your life.

It's what Sara had thought for years.

She realized what Michael's story meant to her was that he _had_ let go – he had left Chicago, left his dear brother out of his sight – and nothing awful had happened. Even without all of those exhausting efforts, life had just run its course.

And this was what happening to her, of course. The loss of control was what she was resisting, not Michael.

It was a relief that his phone started ringing all of a sudden, because Sara felt he was just about to ask if she was all right. "I'm so sorry," he said and looked the part. "I have to take this."

"Please," she answered naturally, shaking herself from her reflections.

Michael got up – she had to stand up, too, to let him pass – and walked out of the car, in search of a more appropriate place to have a phone call.

…

It was Lincoln calling, and Michael listened to him make easy conversation for five full minutes before he realized he was very much in state of shock. It was like an out-of-nowhere bomb had suddenly taken both of Michael's hands and he was listening to his brother ramble on, all the while thinking, _My hands are gone_ , and finding no air in his lungs to say it.

Funny that meeting Sara didn't strike him more as something amazing than as something so utterly life-changing as losing a limb. Solid ground crumbling underfoot. Life as he'd known it gone, sucked in by a cynical-eyed, wry-smiling redhead.

"Linc," Michael said at some point, no louder than a whisper. "Linc –"

It was difficult to concentrate. He'd walked back through the dining car and made it to the bar, where he thought a phone call would cause the least discomfort. Right next to him, a tall Puerto-Rican man was having a heated telephone conversation in Spanish.

"Remind me," Lincoln added, "I want to go over your best man speech before the ceremony. No offense to your writing skills, but I'd like to make sure it's packed with some of my most notorious and fictional accomplishments, know what I'm saying?"

"Linc," Michael repeated, hissing the name through his teeth. The next few seconds were a turmoil in his brain, all the nearby talks saturating his capacity to concentrate. "Something's happened. Something big. Something very, very surreal."

"What is it?" His brother asked with immediate concern.

"I've met someone."

Lincoln's immediate response was silence. If they were standing face to face, Michael would have known what to make of it, but the ten-second pause at the other end of the line was unreadable.

Finally, a frank eruption of laughter was followed by his brother's rhetorical question. "You're kidding, right? Where?"

"Now, just now. Well, more like three hours ago."

"You met her on the _train_?"

Michael might have thought of keeping that detail to himself. Now, Linc was going to be insufferable about his favored mode of transportation. But he was honestly too stunned to care about that just yet. "I know." He said. "I _know_. It's ridiculous. It doesn't make a bit of sense. We haven't stopped talking since she sat next to me. Linc, I don't think I've ever _talked_ this long with a woman that wasn't working with me on a project or –"

"Hold on. _Hold_ on now, Mike." Lincoln's tone was amusingly cautious, as if his brother were distraughtly waving a gun in a crowded room. "I hate to be the one to take you down from a high but you're scaring me a little. Now, I don't mean to say it wouldn't be cool as hell if you'd actually met the holy grail of a woman on your way to my wedding – but let's get real for a few seconds."

Maybe it was when Lincoln said it that Michael realized it _was_ real, the past three hours integrating the level of memories without losing a bit of their precious improbability. In truth, Michael felt a little like he'd had his head into space for hours and now that he was taking a whiff of fresh air, the stars and planets he'd seen orbiting around him were gaining a more concrete dimension.

The first practical thought Michael had about Sara Tancredi was that this couldn't be it. There were only six or seven hours left before she had to get off that train and God knew Michael was a talented bastard at missing romantic windows, but that couldn't be the end of that.

There was absolutely no way he would forgive himself if she wound up walking away from him with her haunted looks and a polite smile.

"Thanks, Linc," Michael breathed out, inaudibly. "You've been very helpful."

"Wait, I'm not saying I'm not thrilled that you're meeting people. I'm all for you getting a little loosened up and stop treating work as a priority –"

"I'll call you back, all right? I love you."

"What –"

Michael hung up without giving his brother an opportunity to answer. Then, for a few seconds, he actually chuckled to himself, genuine pleasure and joy. _You lucky bastard. You lucky, lucky bastard_.

Next to him, the Puerto Rican fellow hung up the phone with a long-suffering sigh. "Women, hey, papi? Ain't they something."

At any other time, Michael wouldn't have been in the mood to reply. Smiling, he answered with a dazed sort of amusement, "You don't say."

"That was my future in-laws on the phone. You know when you love a girl so much you feel like you'd walk through fire for her?" The man shrugged his shoulders, boyish, astonishingly sincere exhaustion. "It'd be better if we didn't actually have to do that, though, right? Better if it was just the love part. Breakfast in bed every day. Every meal in bed every day. Paradise."

Michael laughed – it was more than out of mere politeness. He'd been used to treating people in love as if they were from a different species. "Well," he said. "In any case, congratulations."

"Come again?" The man seemed to have lost himself in the pleasant picture he was painting.

"You're getting married, I gathered. So, congratulations."

"Ah." The man's smile flashed a row of pearl-white teeth. "Yeah. That's the dream. Your girl has nice parents?"

"No girl yet. Let alone in-laws."

"When you do, you make sure she's worth the trouble. Wouldn't go through it for anyone other than Maricruz."

Michael was still smiling when he introduced himself, "I'm Michael."

"Fernando." He reached for Michael's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Can I buy you a drink? God knows I need it."

"It'd be my pleasure, unfortunately – there's someone expecting me."

"Another time, then." Fernando shrugged his shoulders. "It's a long ride. We might run into each other again."

"We might," Michael agreed;

He wished him a good day and, before he stepped out of the dining car, he took a final, deep inhale. Then he was ready to go back into space.

…

 **AN** : I had _tremendous_ fun with this chapter. Hope it'll be as enjoyable a read as it was to write it. Credits to sarascofield72 for giving me the idea to include Sucre. Your ideas are always a pleasure so please don't be shy. See you soon with another update.


	5. Chapter 5

While Michael was gone talking to his brother on the phone, Sara put her purse on her lap and took out a novel she really thought she'd have time to finish on this overly long train ride. As it turned out, though, it proved impossible to get into the story – all Sara could see were _lines_ , not words, let alone sentences, black-on-white barriers to her immersion into the book.

It was harder to read even than when Sara came home from a heart surgery: her hands never shook while she was operating but, sweet lord, they made up for it in the following hours.

The main character in the pulp fiction novel she was reading was called Leonard, and though he was described as a plump middle-aged bureaucrat, Sara kept giving him Michael's remarkable features and deep-blue eyes. She lost interest in substituting the protagonist with Michael when he made a mental note of his secretary's "titillating" outfit. If the two were headed towards an actual sex scene, then it would be too much like a fantasy, and a bland one at that.

Sparing her the effort of vainly trying to concentrate, Sara caught a male figure approaching in the corner of her eye, putting his hand on the edge of her seat.

She was just about to get up to let him through – he'd landed the window seat, after all – when her eyes set on the man's face, and she realized it wasn't Michael.

Surprise only kept her embarrassingly frozen for a few seconds before she mustered a contemptuous scoff. "You're a little old for that, Paul, don't you think? Without mentioning famous. Who gave you my seat?"

Kellerman sighed, drumming long fingers over the edge of her seat. She remembered thinking his hands were like bear claws, huge, ineffective. For the first time, she noticed the wedding ring on his left hand.

"You haven't changed, Sara," he commented. "Always granting me worse intentions than I actually have – always thinking I've got some sort of agenda."

"Well, don't you?"

"You're an old friend – perhaps my oldest friend. Couldn't it be that I just wanted to see how you were doing?"

"Really, Paul, if you're going to try and convince me you believe we're friends, then I also credited you with more intelligence than you're capable of."

His stare on her was blue and silent. Sara didn't flinch or lower her eyes. For all the time she'd known him, she'd always been careful never to show signs of weakness when he was around. Weakness, for men like Paul Kellerman, was a breach to widen and pry their way in.

"I never did know," he reflected, maybe meaning it, "why you hated me so much."

"Why bother?"

"I used to like you a lot. Actually used to think things would be very different –"

"Yes, of course," she didn't try to help the sarcasm in her voice. "My father saw to that. Well, let me tell you, Paul – I didn't hate you because my father spent years trying to set us up together. It didn't help for sure," she admitted, "but that wasn't the reason."

Kellerman chuckled, his affable, _political_ laughter. He still saw her father often, they'd kept a close alliance over the years. Every now and then, Sara was sure Frank Tancredi still ruminated what a perfect fit they would have been for his career. When Kellerman had first come to their house as a guest, he was sharp, clever enough to think for himself but ambitious enough to allow himself to be used by others – he knew how that game was played. And he was only five years older than Sara. He wouldn't have shied away from marrying her to please her father, to seal their alliance in blood.

"Yes," he admitted, "you were always very clear as to what you thought of your father's plans for us." He was still laughing mildly, and Sara remained on her guards. It was always when he was laughing or visibly relaxed that you had to watch out for him.

Without taking her eyes off his face, she replied, "Glad to see someone _would_ marry you. It doesn't do too well for politicians to be single."

Kellerman didn't pretend to be offended at the thought that his marriage was a matter of public appearances. She knew he wasn't capable of love, had known for some time. If he had been, she'd have probably been the one. Not that that would have changed anything as to her feelings for him.

From the very minute Kellerman had walked into their lives, she had hated him, an instinct than ran deep as bones. When he laughed she felt his core was cold as stone, with smiles that never reached to his eyes. When his face took on a convincing air of compassion, she could tell that it was an act, that young as he was, he'd already become coldblooded enough to make it in this world – and he had.

But she wouldn't be part of it, no sir. Not for anything.

For a moment, the past was tangible, floating close to the surface. Mutilated memories came washing on the shore like refuse on a beach.

Those long, intoxicated parties, dancing the time away, her first few tastes of morphine, when she really didn't care about anything anymore, what people thought about her, what the men around her wanted to do. Paul had been there, watching her with an intrigued curiosity, not fully admitting to himself that he wanted her, because girls weren't usually the sort of thing he really wanted.

He'd never taken advantage of her, which she supposed counted for something. Too many others had for her to think it didn't. Then again, she'd never left him an occasion to try – always went to bed with someone else when he was there, whether or not she was in the mood for it. Yes, she would have been a little afraid to lie in bed alone, when he was sleeping in the guest room, as if one night she'd open her eyes and he'd be standing in the doorframe, a tall figure cut out of darkness.

"Well," he replied after a moment. It was impossible to tell whether he, too, had been lost in reminiscing. "I had to settle down at some point. It's important – you know, for my image."

Raising her eyes, ever so slightly, to hint she cared about his image as much as a cat cares about quantum physics. "Maybe America trusts you, Paul, because we tend to trust family men, but it doesn't matter how many children you have around you to make you look all softened up. I'll never trust you. As long as we're clear on that."

He gave her his political smile again. "You know what, Sara? I think I've missed you."

"What a waste of time."

"You'll give your father my love."

"You can give it to him yourself. You see him more than I do."

Before Kellerman had a chance to answer, Sara spotted Michael making his way to their seats. The pleased look on his face became immediately cautious when he spotted the senator. Kellerman was still standing by Sara's seat, blocking his way.

"Is something the matter?" Michael asked.

"No, not at all," Kellerman said with the same smile. "I just happened to walk past an old friend – thought I'd say hello. I won't keep you any longer, Sara. Be sure to call if you ever need anything. You still have my number."

Michael watched the man make his way through the seats and finally disappear into another car. Then he cast a concerned look at Sara – there was a book in her hands, clenched so tight her knuckles were turning white. Her lips were pursed as if she'd swallowed a full glass of unsweetened lemonade.

"Um –" He cleared his throat. She looked up at him, realized he couldn't get to his seat.

"Sorry," she got on her feet to let him through – a shiver crawled down her spine when he brushed past her. For a split second, she felt the warmth through his carmine shirt. Red looked good on men, or Sara had always thought, but it didn't _just_ look good on Michael – it looked sinful, lustful, and just a little bit like the devil had had a hand in it.

" _I_ 'm sorry," he replied, "I didn't mean to leave him an opportunity to bother you."

"Paul's too pretentious for your presence to have scared him away. But thanks anyway."

Though it felt indescribably strange to hear her call Senator Kellerman _Paul_ – to be fair, he couldn't forget she also called Governor Tancredi _dad_ – Michael made himself steer away from the subject. She'd been clear enough that she didn't want to talk about it, and he was resolute not to ask even one question – how did she know Senator Kellerman, was he an old boyfriend.

 _Such things don't happen every day_ , Michael thought, _and they don't happen to everyone. So don't mess it up. Whatever happens, don't mess it up._

Subtly studying the young woman through his lashes, Michael could see that she still looked tense – her finger was tucked in the middle of her book, still in her lap. "You need a bookmark?" He thought it was an innocent enough topic to start.

"It's all right," she shrugged, "it's not that good of a read – only such a long ride could justify seeing it through the end."

"Well, in case you change your mind," he fumbled through his pocket – he always carried business cards, which incidentally happened to have his phone number on them, and that's what he was fishing for when he came up with the invitation to his brother's wedding instead.

As he'd already produced the small carton card and Sara's eyes were staring straight at it, he didn't dare put it back. "You can use this," he improvised bravely. "I won't need it."

Sara took it absently, placing it inside her book maybe at a random page. It didn't have his number on it, but there was the address and time of the wedding – it was at least that. There'd be more time for them to exchange their phone numbers before they parted, Michael was sure.

But the look on the young woman's face hadn't softened. Her eyes were a vacant stare, a whirlpool of feelings coated with cold. You could tell that something was happening, but not what or why.

"I need some air," she said, it seemed to no one in particular.

"You –"

"I'm sorry, Michael."

She grabbed her purse and walked to the end of the car faster than Michael could muster the will to add a word. She'd be back, of course, there were still at least six hours to go – and yet, deep inside, he was convinced something extremely important had just walked out the door of his life. A one-way walk.

For a few seconds, Michael sat frozen, shocked and actually terrified.

His brother's voice in his head – _Let's get real for a second_ – and his forgotten fears and anger drumming in his heart with each beat.

 _Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world_ –

Without thinking, Michael sprung to his feet and followed into Sara's footsteps.

"What am I doing?" He hissed under his breath.

Lincoln would have had an answer to that. _What you're doing, Mikey, is taking a leap of faith_.

…

 **AN** : Sorry I've been a little long in updating, I've got quite a few stories going on! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, please do leave a comment to let me know your thoughts. I don't know how many chapters are left to this story but we're definitely getting towards the end, so if there're any characters you want to see on that train now's the time to make a request ; ). I don't promise I'll figure out a way to put them in, but I'll make an effort (I do like a challenge). See you soon with another update!


	6. Chapter 6

_A ladykiller, regulation tattoo_

 _Silver spurs on his heels_

 _Says, what can I tell you, as I'm standing next to you_

 _She threw herself under my wheels_

 _Oh it's a dangerous road_

Dire Straits, "On Every Street"

…

Sara's earliest memory was the day Bruce Bennett had taken her to the marketplace. She must have been four, maybe three years old. The rich, varied smell of roasted meat and exotic spices had left an imprint so deep she could probably smell it now, if she closed her eyes and tried hard enough. Sara remembered the scarves that'd been hanging for sale, out in the sun, surreal colors in the sky, red, purple, orange. Bruce had been holding her hand. Shuffling through people of every kind, all so tall to Sara – she had been only looking at their shoes but even so, they were an incalculable ocean of strangeness and diversity.

It had been her first memory and, for a long time, inexplicably, the best.

As Sara made her way through the different cars of the train, finding balance against a few seats, crossing the eyes of an unknown face, she thought there was something the marketplace and trains must have in common. Something about people from all over the country all incidentally gathered in a same place. Something about _possibilities_ , often overlooked, often untaken.

 _Why the train?_ Michael had asked her a few hours ago.

If she had been able to express it at the time, that's what she would have answered.

Even if they did have something fascinating bout them, trains weren't the best of places when you wanted to be alone. Sara managed to land in a small car, with just two foldable seats on each side and a bathroom. Luggage filled up most of the space. There was also a place where you could plug your computer or your phone and a small window, which Sara immediately rushed to.

The landscape framing their racing train was all rocks and woods and wilderness. After a few minutes, Sara realized her heart was pumping at a mad pace.

 _Easy_ , she said to herself. She used to need to say the words out loud, but in her young adult years she'd learn to calm herself down without anybody so much as noticing she'd been upset. _Seeing Paul Kellerman isn't pleasant business but it isn't worth all that trouble. You see him all the time on television_. _It isn't stressful like having your hands in someone's body, like minutely cutting their chests open._ Yesterday they'd done a cardiac transplant on a sixty-six-year-old. She'd actually touched a human heart.

How could her pulse have remained steady then and be drumming at her temples now?

It wasn't about Paul, really. It was the past, what she'd been running from. Medicine had been such a perfect, busy place to hide. At the hospital, Sara was _Doctor Tancredi_. That was that. No one looked for more than what was printed on her nametag. There was no time to be afraid, to be angry. When Sara did come to think of the past, it came down to a vague image of an abyss-deep pit of darkness that was filled with drugs and death-numb slumber, a soul-crushing helplessness to be heard, to be _alive_ , and anger, anger, anger.

But then she'd think, _Surely I got out. I'm a million miles away from that abyss now; aren't I?_

Sara looked out the window and the flashing world outside and she thought she didn't know. That's the thing about hiding, she thought. As long as you don't come out, you can't know, really, how far you've come, if you've made it.

"Sara?"

The young woman turned back. Her already rapid heartbeat quickened as her eyes latched onto Michael's face. For a few seconds, she was dumbfounded, incapable of saying a word.

"What are you doing here?" She said, as if he'd miraculously crossed the country rather than a few train cars to find her.

"I thought –" There was that charming nervousness. She'd gone used to it, was fond of it, but now was not the right time. Now, she was angry. Terribly, frightfully angry, as she used to be as a girl, the sort of anger she'd learned to cage inside her because her father said she had to be _decorous_ and _womanly_. She'd hid it because it felt legitimate but would look ridiculous, because a woman's anger isn't intense or alarming; it's hysterical; it's _funny_.

"I came here because I wanted to be alone," she said.

"Yes," he didn't look down at the floor or blush. "Yes, of course."

"So let me."

"If it's what you want."

"I just said it was."

But he didn't walk away and Sara's cheeks were flushed, burning. If he did she knew she'd feel like that girl again, who had spent her life being agreeable to look at yet sensed she had never been _seen_ in her life, had never let anything real about her exist, had been a stranger to absolutely everyone. In her mind, she had raved, dreamed of finding a way to come out, had heard herself scream and scream in her head while dinner was going on and people were laughing and her father was showing his winning smile, but she'd never managed out a sound. It felt like if she had, if everyone at the table had suddenly looked at her and heard, then the fabric of her world might have torn and she could have escaped between the cracks.

But what if they'd laughed? What if they'd said she was just a spoiled princess throwing a tantrum? What if they'd gone on eating and chatting as if they hadn't heard her at all?

The silence in her throat was still burning with defeat.

Standing at the opposite end of the small, luggage-saturated car, Michael couldn't be more than six feet from her. "If you think I should leave," he said, "then I will."

"I think you should," she answered, blunt, honest. He didn't look embarrassed or like he regretted coming. "But for whatever reason," she admitted, "I don't want you to."

There was no need to explain. He could feel it too, this strange, instantaneous connection. How the look of her haunted smile gripped at his insides, hiding a question he felt he'd known the answer to all his life.

How had he not met her sooner? How hadn't he stumbled upon her drunk out of a bar, bumped into her on the street? Now that it'd happened, from the moment she'd stared into his eyes, Michael felt their lives were somehow bound and they would find their way back to each other, should they be tossed to opposite ends of the globe.

"I want to say the right thing to you," he admitted.

"If I'd ever known what was right for me, I'd help you." She stepped closer. "Why do I feel like I can tell you anything, Michael, and you'll understand – you'll hear me?"

"Because I want to."

She chuckled, brushing away remainders of disbelief. "I don't usually do that, you know. Talk to strangers."

"Me neither."

He didn't say they weren't strangers. There was no point. That's what they were. Strangers who knew each other from the inside out, like learning a language you instinctively understandd.

"Are you okay?" He asked then.

She said, "I don't know." Stepped closer to him. He was very tall, she realized; she had to stand on her tiptoes. "I think I'll find out."

He let her kiss him, softly. Her lips crushed against his mouth, she felt tender, arousing, ungraspable. Time caught fire and died; he couldn't say whether it was seconds or minutes before she drew away and looked inquisitively at him, as if he was the one who'd kissed her.

"Michael Scofield," she said, "is that all right if I'm wondering whether you're actually real?"

"What else would I be?"

"I don't care," she admitted, breathless, stripped of propriety, and so honest and eager that he kissed her again.

Her hair against his fingers felt soft like downy feathers. The warmth of her in his arms, suddenly, was intoxicating, kissing her inexplicably exhilarating. He'd kissed women before, quite a good deal of them. This was something new altogether. This was _cosmic_ , as if their kissing on a train would have worldwide repercussions.

As if no matter what had happened in their lives before today, Michael and Sara would somehow always have ended up on that train to Chicago, precipitately in love, kissing as if there would be no tomorrow.

…

 **AN** : I've got a lot of stories going so it took me a little longer than usual to update. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! I'd love to know how you reacted to it so don't hesitate to leave a comment ; )


	7. Chapter 7

He hadn't expected they'd be so silent afterwards. Hadn't known what to expect, had never kissed a woman he'd barely just met. There was a round look of disbelief in her brown eyes. They hardly exchanged a word, going back to their seats. At first, there was no embarrassment, because the memory of her lips on his was fresh and intoxicating, so close he felt he could reach out to her any moment and kiss her again.

But with each footstep, each minute, the kiss became a moment out of time, something you can't decide what to think of. Like a dream that feels so vivid you're sure you'll remember it forever but, the next moment, it's gone, creeping out of your addled head, giving way to dawn.

When they stood in front of their seats, Michael felt like he should make a joke, say something about what had just happened so it didn't just disappear into oblivion, but everything he could think of would come off as awkward or crude.

Michael brushed past Sara to regain the window seat, saw her blushing at the slight feel of his body. Sudden panic swam to his mouth, blocking any already awkward effort at a casual sentence _. Don't do this now. Stop the thoughts from shooting like arrows, block out every noise that storms your senses_. In his chest, he could feel his heart beating, the quick despair of a panting dog, resisted the urge to over-analyze every detail. Had he ruined this? Was there anything to ruin to begin with? Would those few hours feel like a distant bubble of absurdity years from now – _remember that girl you kissed in a moving train? Thought you were in love. Idiot. She went down at her stop – 'cause what else could she do? – and that was all, soon you were both jumping back to your busy lives, following the threads you'd left suspended on that train ride, while the train ride itself became some nonsensical interlude. An interruption from normal life_.

Hot beads of perspiration streamed down his shirt collar. Michael undid the first three buttons without thinking, would have undone more if Sara hadn't set startled eyes on him – she still looked bemused, as if he hadn't really kissed her a few minutes ago but cast a spell on her, and she was very afraid to find out if it was as strong as she thought.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

"Hot," he said without thinking.

The red on her cheeks turned crimson. How could she be embarrassed? Weren't they both consenting adults? All of the things they incredibly happened to share – didn't that outshine whatever awkwardness is in order for kissing strangers?

"Are you?" He returned. "Okay?"

Sara didn't look back at her lap, but her eyes became somewhat vacant, escaping him even as she was looking at him.

"Yes," she said. More honestly, a few seconds later, but still cheating his eyes. "This is strange for me."

"Do you regret it?"

"No."

He could tell she wasn't lying. So where did that leave them?

Nowhere. He almost couldn't believe it. Nowhere at all. They hadn't exchanged phone numbers. After the last of their trip had expired, he wouldn't know where to find her.

But there was still the invitation to his brother's wedding, tucked inside her book. Michael held on to that, thought it must count for something, thought it must give. Thought that of all that had happened on this train ride, something had to.

…

Sara wasn't sure exactly what cloaked her into silence. She knew what it _wasn't_. Shame. Regret. If she didn't regret it, how could she not make up her mind to say something? Anything would be better than this, than just sitting next to each other, wordless, when it had been so easy to know him, to know in each other even what they hadn't known themselves.

And the kiss had been wonderful, a little awe-inspiring, like watching a great flock of birds rise into a black-winged sky. Sara felt she and Michael were so alike in spirit that uncovering his layers of social conversation was hardly like plunging into the unknown, but kissing him was different. Different because she didn't feel like she'd known his body all her life, like there would be amazement there but no surprise. At the merest touch, the palm of his hand brushing her waist, she'd known Michael could make her feel things that had never entered her thoughts before.

It wasn't that Sara didn't usually enjoy this. There'd been pleasant lovers and even a few outstanding ones. With them, Sara was never uncertain, was never afraid that peeling off her clothes would expose something inside herself that she'd forgotten, that she never wanted to find.

 _That's it, then_ , she could do little but realize. _I'm afraid._

Afraid of what? Surprisingly, she discovered she knew the answer to that.

Of course, she knew. From the first, Michael had seen through every wall she'd ever built to keep people at bay, had pierced through every loop that was meant to keep them wandering on the right track. Sara hadn't thought of resenting it because she'd been able to do the same thing. But now –

Yes, there was something Michael was hiding, too, but it was something easier to put into words. It smelled of childhood trauma and probably abuse. And anger, anger like you've never seen the colors of, blacker than anything you can dream of – you might have thought anger was red, but it's black, you must believe her. Sara could relate to that. But what would Michael find, if she let him in, if she surrendered control, if she stopped fighting?

He'd find what Sara herself had spent her life trying to hide from. That had been the use of almost everything in her life – yes, sadly, everything – from morphine to medicine.

The truth was that Sara had no _reason_ to be this angry. A dead mother and a father that was nearly as absent, yes, but most of the time Sara hadn't missed them – hadn't known her mother or liked her father enough for it. Surely enough, she'd found herself in bad situations, had been with men who were just a little too easy on the booze, but she'd never stayed a day with them past seeing the back of their hands – or any other body part their inebriation happened to unbottle. And anyway, this _thing_ inside of Sara predated all of that, had not been born with trauma.

It was born with her. In her. All her life, as far as Sara could remember, any occupation was only ever an excuse to distract her from the emptiness, from the fear of facing herself and finding there was something there completely unknown, a black-as-midnight abyss sucking in her energy. If she let go, if she lost control even for a minute, if she wasn't thinking about school or work or men or drugs – God, drugs were what worked best – then she was thinking about these unknowable depths, her identity bare to the bone as she'd never dared to approach it.

The more time passed, the more Sara became convinced she wasn't the only one. Other people, normal people, were running, too, sometimes even without knowing it. _You strip them clean of their jobs, their money, all of their social markers – what does that leave? Would they know it?_

But people mustn't be so afraid of the thing inside them as Sara was, because they were able to simply forget it was there. Sara couldn't. Because that unspoken voice, that ghost of a spirit, was _so_ angry, so unknowable, like a black figure on a black wall.

With time, Sara had simply found it easier to think all those things she'd done to run from herself were who she really was. A doctor. An addict. Any label was fine, was something finite, definitive.

There was a slight tremor inside the train, making Sara newly aware of Michael's proximity, his thigh brushing her knee.

 _If I fall in love with him_ , she thought, knew this to be the absolute truth, _if I follow him_ , _then I'll let go_. _I'll stop._ The idea of no longer maintaining this exhausting control over every little thing in her life was incredible, relieving and terrifying. _If anything I've done has become a part of me over the years, it's not my job, it's not all the charity work or who I vote for. It's the control_. She imagined herself sitting in a circle full of faceless people. _Hi, my name is Sara, and I'm a control-addict. I control even the most pointless things that I do, because it feels like if I don't, everything I know will crumble into chaos and blackness, and yet if I keep doing it, I'm pretty sure I'll explode_.

Sara's life had been a never-ending ride, racing through the waves as fast as she could and not stopping to think when she could help it. And she had never wanted out, had never thought she _could_ get out in the first place. Had never thought life could be any different, but then –

Then came that stranger with a flash of a smile and Sara hadn't wanted to keep on running and just pass him by.

 _Because he's like me_ , she thought. Yes, Michael Scofield probably knew a thing or two about flight. But he'd known how to stop.

For the few hours that followed, Sara felt he wanted to talk to her multiple times – clearing his throat, looking intensively at her, but she never found it in her to look back. Wanting to, but finding she couldn't open her mouth, as if she'd turned to stone inside out.

The end of that train ride to Washington was quieter and graver than you'd have ever thought was possible, at the beginning, that crossroads of brown and blue between their eyes and something in them igniting.

"This is where you go," Michael said at some point, when an announcement warned them of their immediate stop to Washington.

"Yes," she tried not to meet his eyes. The traces of disappointment in his voice were bad enough.

"Sara," he started, "if I did anything that offended you –"

"No." She wanted him to hear she was honest. "No, Michael. Really. I had – I had a wonderful time."

Silence filled in for what she didn't add. Michael sighed – deep, earnest. "But you don't want to hear from me again, do you?"

"It's not that." No, it wasn't, he must understand. What she _wanted_ wasn't what mattered. It wasn't even that she was being a coward – although she was, a little.

Then she did look at him, as if to evidence bravery, and because she wanted him to know the truth.

 _Michael Scofield, you are the single most amazing man I've ever seen. For you, I'd have overcome my hate of romantic stories and my love of freedom. I'd have accepted to become addicted again, not to be able to sleep one night without the feel of your arms around me and the smell of you in my sheets._

 _I'm just not ready for the revolution that falling in love with you would mean. I'm not ready to let go of what I've built my life upon, even if it was just a hiding place – it got too safe here, too familiar. Like sitting in the dark in a small closet where everyone stopped looking for me. And I'm not ready to be found yet. I can't._

Maybe the words were clear as rain water in her eyes and they reached him without effort, like all the things she'd known about him without needing to ask. Or maybe they were lost.

"I don't understand," he only said. "It's strange. Since I've met you, I felt like you made sense of everything I've ever felt in my life – and yet I can't make sense of you."

The train slowed, a final announcement for Washington filled their car.

"I'm sorry." The words felt cheap and inappropriate. A warning crept in her brain – _you'll hate yourself for this one day_. "I have to go."

"Wait," he took hold of her arm when she got on her feet. The gentleness of his touch startled her, shivers crawling down her skin. "I know you don't owe me anything, and I know it's insane to ask you – but I want you to come to my brother's wedding. I want you to meet me in Chicago next Saturday."

"Michael –"

"I know you don't want to. Actually, I think you want to but can't for some reason. I don't know why that is and I'm not trying to make light of it. But we have to see each other again, Sara." He said it like it was bound to happen, had been written in the stars for thousands of years. "I just know we will, in my bones. And if I'm the only one of us who feels that way, then don't come – prove me wrong."

Sara withdrew her hand, feeling stunned, a little afraid. The resolution in his eyes, burning blue and beyond serious, with a sort of faith that said he'd find her someday, even if she was at the other end of the world. As if something between them had been born today and would always lead him back to her.

And why?

 _Because of all the trains in all the country in all the world, you walked into mine_.

"Goodbye, Michael," she said before she walked away and out of the car, struggling not to cast a single look behind.

But he never said it back. _Goodbye_.

…

 **AN** : believe it or not, I wrote this chapter waiting for my train ; ). I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. Though I've been having a lot of fun with this story, I'm afraid the next chapter will also be the last… you've been warned ; ). Title was inspired by Nancy Meyers' movie _Something's Gotta Give_.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN** : It's been a long time since I should have posted this. A guest review made me realize that while it was clear to me that I wasn't forgetting about all my on-going stories, it might not be so clear to everyone. So here goes, as an act of good faith. I hope you enjoy it.

 **1\. The Train Station**

By the time the train finally got to Chicago, Michael felt physically drained, as if every bit of his energy had gone into that fruitless attempt to get a pledge from Sara – anything, a phone number, a promise – and now refused to refuel itself, left him swimming numbly in a state of exhausted failure.

 _I tried_ , he told himself, but didn't like the ring of it, didn't like the use of past tense. _Did everything I could to hold her back, in the end, this is a free country and she's a free woman, utterly free to walk away from a stranger she kissed on a train._

Maybe the kiss had vampirically drawn the vigor out of him. In any case, Michael shuffled out of the train feeling like a revenant. The station was crowded and, for some reason, all he could see were people in pairs, couples kissing, embraces that meant reunion, _hello_.

Train rides are transitory by definition, so it's easy for them to gain a dreamlike feel even after a short time. Michael had expected that, as soon as he'd get back to real life, those few hours he'd spent with Sara would seem a faraway, half-imagined memory. Some of the easiest, freest conversations he'd ever had and that kiss, almost too perfect, like the one rose in the Beast's garden that means death to whoever plucks it. But it was the reverse. Every footstep further into the station was like walking in a dream, one that's empty and that shouldn't exist anymore, but it's the only thing left that's real.

"Jesus, Mike."

Michael started. His brother's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, Lincoln's smiling face, eyes sparkling with the boyish malice no correctional school had managed to tame.

"Oh. Hi –"

Lincoln clutched him tight against him without giving him time to finish, then gave him a closer look of appraisal, with his hand still around him. "You don't look in your right mind, you know that?"

Nothing would come out but truth. "I'm not in my right anything."

This made Lincoln chuckle and, for some reason, though his heart felt very much under deadly threat, Michael didn't resent it.

"Would that have anything to do with the woman you met on the train?"

Michael didn't nod, didn't confirm – his eyes answered much sooner than he could have with words. Then, Lincoln's face became slightly graver, and Michael concluded, "We'll talk about it later."

 **2\. Night**

Veronica was staying at her parents', which was a little old-fashioned to Lincoln's taste but suited Michael just fine. He loved V, he did, but tonight, he simply didn't see how he could have kept a pretense of cheerful spirits.

They had dinner, takeaway from some Indian place, Michael told Lincoln to just order anything. In truth, he wasn't hungry in the least, but didn't refuse a glass of wine when Lincoln started pouring. This was, after all, a celebration.

"So," Lincoln said, sitting on a chair opposite his brother. It was a nice enough apartment, full of pleasant memories with Lincoln and Veronica, but they couldn't seem to chase what was on Michael's mind. "Don't make me wait any longer. What happened with the girl?"

Michael had a sip of wine. Lincoln could tell he was stalling. "No, let's not do this, Linc. This is your night. It's the closest thing you'll get to a bachelor party."

"Does it look like I'm in the mood to call a stripper?"

"Be serious."

"Hey, you're the one who called me a few hours ago to say you'd had one of these love-at-first-sight happenings."

"It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?" Lincoln shrugged. "Let me guess. She just went down at her stop and you've been brooding ever since?"

Michael sighed. "I realize it's hard to take it seriously. I mean, I'm the number one skeptic when it comes to those things. It wasn't love," he said, "it wasn't anything I can put in words." _But it was at first sight_ , he didn't add. _From the very first glimpse_.

"Okay," Lincoln said, seriously enough, was ready to listen. "Tell me about her."

And, without seeing a reason why not, Michael did. Everything, with as many details as he could remember. That immediate connection when he looked into Sara's eyes, how simple it was to communicate, the words flowing freely between them, but even _without words_ , the things he read but which sometimes eluded his grasp in her haunted looks and haunting smile.

When he was done, Michael didn't know how much time had gone by, but the food had been delivered – Lincoln had been a minute in answering the door and getting back to his seat, like a boy eagerly waiting for the end of his story – and when Michael shoved a forkful into his mouth, as if to indicate he was finished, he realized the meal was cold.

"Wow." Lincoln said after a moment. "That's, I mean – that's not the sort of thing that happens every day."

"No."

"And it's wonderful. Look, it's not that I was worried or anything, but you are kind of a loner and the overly serious type. I always wondered if – you know – maybe you didn't have enough fun."

"Thanks a lot."

"It's just you're all work, Mike. And the worst is you seem completely okay with it – like there's absolutely nothing more you want."

Michael shrugged, didn't have the will to say that viewing happiness as a corollary to sharing your life with someone was a social construct. Not tonight. Instead, he answered, "Well, now there is."

Lincoln smiled. It was the more mature, more serious smile he'd acquired over the years. "So that's it, then?"

"Maybe. It certainly looks like it."

"She didn't give you her phone number?"

"No. I have her full name."

"Am I to understand you intend to stalk her?"

"No." He said, honestly. "I won't have to."

Lincoln appraised his brother with a blend of amusement and suspicion. "Correct me if I'm wrong here, but I'm under the impression you're _convinced_ you'll see her again." Again, Michael shrugged. "Even though she's a total stranger?"

Michael sighed at this and shook his head. "What's that you told me when we were kids, Linc? When things were hard and I had to see it through day to day?"

The smile on Lincoln's lips changed – suddenly, to Michael, he looked like a teenager again. "Have a little faith?"

Michael nodded, said the words to himself. "Have a little faith."

 **3\. Night**

Sara had booked a hotel room for her stay in Washington. No way she was staying at her father's. When she put her purse on the counter, the book she'd packed for the train ride fell out and suddenly there was a big, cream-white carton card on the carpet, the invitation to the wedding of Michael's brother.

For a few minutes, Sara stood staring at it without moving. She'd completely forgotten Michael had offered it as a bookmark and she hadn't remembered to give it back.

Of course, though he'd asked her to meet him in Chicago, he had to know it was ridiculous. So did she, in the reasonable part of her brain. _You are not ditching your father to fly to Chicago only to meet a man you barely know_.

What did her father have planned for Saturday, anyway? Brunch, quality time, unofficial meeting so he could be photographed with his only daughter and advertise himself as a family man? Sara couldn't remember why she obliged him like this – why she came here in the first place.

Still, she couldn't possibly show up at Lincoln's wedding, a complete stranger. Michael probably hadn't been serious when he'd invited her. Part of her knew he had, but that didn't seem to matter.

And soon, those thoughts left place to another, whose impact Sara didn't know how to take. _If you don't go, you'll never see him again_.

 **4\. The Day of the Wedding**

Lincoln had never looked good in a suit. Nothing to be done about it. Michael was patient, handling Lincoln like a child who needs a haircut but who won't sit still for a minute.

"Goddamn it," Lincoln cursed, "do I have to wear the bowtie?"

"I don't know, man. I didn't pick it."

" _Veronica_ picked it."

"Aren't you glad you'll spend the rest of your life with her?"

Michael had to chew on the inside of his lip not to laugh – his brother, all prim and elegant in a tux, the collar looking tight around his thick neck, just didn't cut it at all.

"Let me tell you," Lincoln sighed, smoldering in his clothes, "it's the last time I put on anything like that. At your wedding, brother, I'll wear jeans and a tee-shirt."

"Anything you like."

"As long as we're straight on that." Lincoln gave a look at his reflection in the mirror. They still had a few minutes before they had to drive to the church. "You know what's worse?" He said, glancing at Michael. "It's that you look so damned natural in those. Did you have to be the smart one _and_ the handsome one?"

"Well, you're the one who's getting married," Michael put his hand on his shoulder. "So there's got to be something you're not seeing. Come on. Let's not get ourselves late."

…

It was nice to see Veronica again and the ceremony was pleasant, in a homely garden that looked nice but not overdone. Still, Michael sometimes smiled when he saw his brother standing under a flower crown, or the myriads of bluish lights that had been enmeshed in the bushes. He really couldn't help it. Michael realized he'd never expected his brother would get married.

There were more people than he'd thought. Well over a hundred, which is a lot when at least one of the to-be-married has no family. The band playing was decent, filling the air with songs Michael knew had been picked exclusively by Veronica – Lincoln wasn't one to like music.

Throughout the ceremony, as his brother and his childhood friend exchanged vows, Michael wasn't nervous, wasn't thinking about Sara. Well, that's to say his mind wasn't in an unbearable torment, going mad with fragments of hope – _will she come, will she come, will she come?_ Actually, Michael was serene, genuinely happy for his brother, and he wasn't the least surprised when, amidst the small crowd that made up the wedding guests, he spotted her.

She was wearing a black dress, not showing much legs but it was the first Michael saw of them. He wondered if it was strange for her, seeing him out of his jeans and red shirt, making it so blatant it was only the second time they saw each other.

But in her eyes, there was the same inexplicable familiarity, known always yet unknowable. She didn't know why she'd come here and neither did he, but it made sense to them both in a way that couldn't be put into words.

Her eyes set on him with near embarrassment – she must think she was ridiculous for coming here. Without thinking, he took a step forward, and suddenly realized time must have stopped because it all came into motion again. The music, crystal glasses being filled with champagne to the brim, the annoying mush of ambient chatter so typical of why Michael hated parties.

Just then, his numbness left place to a blighting elation, blowing into his chest, stronger with every beat. No longer inhabiting a hollowed-out dream but back to its strange wonders, its unspeakable beauties.

Somehow, that feeling of bliss came together with a surprising sense of pragmatism. Michael couldn't mess this up. Suddenly, it struck him that Lincoln shouldn't see Sara, because then he'd know she was the woman from the train and she'd know he'd told him and some of the magic might lose its power in being shared.

Stealthy and fast, Michael shot towards her. Lincoln was standing near the buffet table, inspecting the food. If Michael could just draw Sara away from the rush of festivity, maybe –

"Hello."

When she said it, he was close enough to touch her, and he realized he hadn't thought to start with _hello_ at all. 'Hello' was miles and miles from where they were, so far behind Michael couldn't bring himself to think of polite greetings, civil formulas. _Hi, how was your flight? I'm so glad you could make it_.

"I'm late," she realized, lowered her eyes. This wasn't like her, traveling across states to meet up with someone, and too much like a romantic gesture that she hated how it was coming off.

He wanted to say: _I understand. You don't have to be ashamed. I understand._

But his body ran faster than his mouth and before he could help himself, his hand was brushing her wrist. The touch made his whole skin prickle. Sara looked surprised and – fortunately – forgot to be embarrassed.

"Do you want to get away for a moment?" He asked.

She didn't act like this was silly, didn't say, _But I just got here_.

"Uh-huh."

She nodded and followed him further into the garden, past the cluster of tux-wearing men and fancily dressed women. All the while, Michael's hand was around hers and he could feel her pulse, fast and frightened against his thumb.

They walked until the group was at a safe distance and they could barely hear the band playing.

Then there was nothing in the way, nothing to stop or delay them, and he thought Sara didn't really look ashamed anymore. She looked angry.

 _Oh, you incomprehensible, maddening piece of contradiction_.

Was he smiling? Surely, he wouldn't be able to hold out for long.

"I hate that I came here." She blurted. Apparently, she'd decided they could do without an introduction.

"Why? The cliché?"

"Partly."

But that wasn't all. He could tell the roots were deeper. Terrible, to have to focus and talk when he wanted to touch her again – she'd let go of his hand when they'd stopped walking – to feel the concrete evidence that she was here in front of him.

"I'm not used to it either," he said, "if it makes you feel better."

"Maybe you're not used to it." She conceded. "But you don't seem afraid of it."

"What's there to be afraid of?"

She chuckled. Shock, not amusement. She didn't understand why she'd taken a plane to Chicago just to be here, in front of him, but she knew it wasn't to hide from the truth any longer or exchange platitudes at a party.

"You just accept something like that?" She said. "A sudden change of paradigm in your life – do you just go along with the revolution without resisting?"

"What's there to resist?"

He took a step closer when he didn't mean to. Sara's cheeks were flushed, passion visibly storming below the surface, and he didn't want to rush her.

He wanted to show her. _Let go. Stop running_. Running doesn't always mean escaping, most of the time, you're running still.

The very air around them felt ready with ignition, filled with indulgence, so that, really, that they _weren't_ touching felt ridiculous, like going against the wind.

Her eyes on him were sharp and appraising. "How?" She said. "How are you not afraid?"

"I don't know."

"We can't go back to the way things were."

"I don't care. Thank heaven."

He hadn't wanted to kiss her so fast but then her lips were so rosy and appealing in their pointless protest that he couldn't help himself. It was probably a better argument than anything he could have come up with, one she didn't think to go against.

Soon, her hands were gripping at the back of his head and he knew it was for the best. They'd wasted enough time as it was, living in the same city for years and never running into each other, delaying what was most undoubtedly meant to happen.

 **5\. Two Years Later**

She picked Florida for their honeymoon. He lets her decide on this sort of things, knows Sara well enough to know little markers of control are important. It was good enough that she was willing to let him into her life and heal whatever wound she'd kept open, pretending she couldn't see it anymore, forgetting there was any pain.

On the whole, he knows he's helped her disentangle from things that were bad for her. She doesn't see her father anymore and, when he asked if he was coming to the wedding, she said it wasn't the wedding he would have wanted for her, anyway, so he might save himself the trip.

Lincoln and V love her, loved her from the very first – and brief – glimpse they caught at their wedding. Since, they've become almost like family to her, too, which is lucky, she says, because she doesn't have much left.

She has enough. All that matters.

The wedding is in three weeks and they've just booked their tickets for Florida – it's going to be nice, nothing but each other and a scorching sun and tender just-married love making.

And, of course, though it's a long way there, they're taking the train.

It goes without saying.


End file.
